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Cantatas for Quinquagesima King’s College Chapel, Cambridge This concert was significant in several ways. Firstly, it contained Bach’s two ‘test’ pieces for the cantorship at St Thomas’s in Leipzig, BWV 22 and BWV 23, designed to be performed within a single service either side of the sermon on 7 February 1723. Then Quinquagesima being the last Sunday before Lent, it was accordingly the final opportunity Leipzigers had of hearing music in church before the statutory tempus clausum that lasted until Vespers on Good Friday, and Bach seemed determined to leave them with music – four cantatas – that they wouldn’t easily forget. Thirdly, by coincidence, in 2000 Quinquagesima fell on 5 March, thirty-six years to the day since I first conducted Monteverdi’s Vespers of 1610 in King’s College Chapel as an undergraduate. The Monteverdi Choir was born that night. I was pleased to be returning to King’s for this anniversary, and to invite the four collegiate choirs from which I had recruited the original Monteverdians to join with us in the singing of the chorales at the start of the concert. Of these, the choirs of Clare and Trinity Colleges responded positively. King’s Chapel seemed to work its unique Gothic alchemy on the music, though, as ever, one needed to be on one’s guard against the insidious ‘tail’ of its long acoustic which can turn even the most robust music-making into mush. St Luke’s Gospel for Quinquagesima recounts two distinct episodes, of Jesus telling the disciples of his coming Passion and of sight restored to a blind man begging near Jericho. Bach deals with the first episode in BWV 22 Jesus nahm zu sich die Zwölfe, which, judging by the autograph score, looks as though it were composed at speed in Leipzig itself; and the second in BWV 23 Du wahrer Gott und Davids Sohn, which shows signs of having been pre- composed in Cöthen. BWV 22 incorporates dance rhythms and in its final chorale movement – an elegantly flowing moto perpetuo – pays stylistic homage to Johann Kuhnau, the previous Cantor of St Thomas’s. It begins with a fluid arioso for tenor (qua evangelist) and bass (qua vox Christi) with oboe and strings, and then breaks into a skittish fugal chorus to point up the disciples’ incomprehension 1 in the memorable words ‘and they understood none of these things, neither knew they the things which were spoken’. One could read into this an ironic prophecy of the way Bach’s new Leipzig audience would react to his creative outpourings over the next twenty-six years – in the absence, that is, of any tangible or proven signs of appreciation: neither wild enthusiasm, deep understanding nor overt dissatisfaction. Two dance-based arias follow: a grief-laden gigue in 9/8 for alto with oboe obbligato (No.2), a gentle plea to be allowed to accompany the Saviour on his spiritual journey to Jerusalem, and a passepied for tenor and strings (No.4), a prayer for courage and help in denying the flesh. The cantata concludes with a piacevole chorale setting over a ‘walking’ bass as a symbol of the disciples’ journey to fulfilment – nothing to arouse any suspicions here, nor to ruffle any congregational feathers. Compared to some of the flowery words and unappetising imagery that Bach went on to set in his first year in office, this libretto is refreshingly straightforward and well-crafted – perhaps a ‘set text’ assigned to him by his clerical examiners? BWV 23 is an altogether more solemn affair, and was written to be performed after the sermon and the distribution of communion. It has the feel of Passion music and indeed its concluding movement, a setting of the German Agnus Dei, seems to have been tacked on to a pre-existing cantata once Bach arrived in Leipzig for his audition (it had earlier belonged to his lost Weimar Passion setting and would be recycled for the hasty revival of his St John Passion in 1725). The cantata emphasises the way in which Jesus actively sought out the sick and handicapped – and therefore social outcasts – and healed them. Bach’s opening movement is a slow duet in C minor for soprano and alto with twin oboe obbligati (there are two blind men in St Matthew’s account, 20:30-34). It is a long aria with a poignant appeal for compassion in the midst of misery, its chamber-like textures characteristic of Bach’s Cöthen period – ornate and dense, and no easy listen for Bach’s critical assessors. It is followed by an accompagnato for tenor and strings with the oboe/first violin playing the Lutheran Agnus Dei wordlessly. The original ending of this cantata was the swinging, rondo-like chorus ‘Aller Augen warten, Herr, auf dich’ (No.3), in which 2 the blind men’s prayer, now given to tenor and bass soloists, is interspersed with the seven-fold appearance of the text from Psalm 145, all upon a bass line tracing the contours of the opening melodic phrase of the Agnus Dei, now in G minor. Bach’s decision to append his earlier Passion setting of the Agnus Dei as a slow, mostly homophonic chorale was surely strategically sound: it instantly displayed the breadth of his stylistic and exegetical scope to his future employers. A press report, by a ‘special correspondent’, appeared in the Hamburg Relationscourier: ‘On the past Sunday in the forenoon the prince-appointed Capellmeister of Cöthen, Mr Bach, gave an audition here in the Church of St Thomas in respect of the still vacant post of the Cantor, and the music he made on that occasion was highly praised by all those who judge such things.’ Peter Williams has made the spicy suggestion that the ‘special correspondent’ could have been Bach himself – an early example of ‘spin’ and self-aggrandisement. How one would like to know from ‘those who judge such things’ whether they responded more favourably to the more conventional (utilitarian, even) BWV 22, reminiscent of Kuhnau, or the more ingenious and sophisticated BWV 23, with its Neumeister-style verse divided initially, like an Italian sonata, into three movements dictated by compositional requirements and design rather than by the text. If Bach’s examiners had any lingering doubts as to the complexity of his music, or the charge of its being ‘bombastic and confused’ (as J A Scheibe was famously to describe it), what would they make of the later pair of cantatas composed for this same Sunday two and six years later, in 1725 (BWV 127) and 1729 (BWV 159)? What Laurence Dreyfus calls Bach’s ‘indomitable inventive spirit’ led him during the course of the next few years – as we are discovering with each fresh instalment of weekly cantatas – to come up with a succession of works, each characterised by a colossally fertile musical brain and a prodigious musical imagination and capacity for invention, all held in check by an unparalleled technical mastery of the component parts; yet containing at the same time music that could appeal to the senses and nourish the spirit. 3 The opening movement of BWV 127 Herr Jesu Christ, wahr’ Mensch und Gott is a case in point, an elegiac chorale fantasia in which Bach combines Paul Eber’s hymn of 1562 with a text-less presentation of the Lutheran Agnus Dei and, in case that were not enough, several references in the basso continuo to the Passion chorale ‘Herzlich tut mich verlangen’. There is nothing remotely bombastic or confused in Bach’s composition of this movement; nor academic, smart-arsed or tendentious. It is arresting in its musical presentation of the dualism of God and man and the relationship of the individual believer to Christ’s cross and Passion. I took the radical step of asking the Clare and Trinity choirs to join in by adding the appropriate German words to the Agnus Dei strophes, since that reference would be lost on a contemporary non-Lutheran audience. With undergraduate sopranos and altos on opposite wings of the centrally arrayed Monteverdi Choir, the whole movement acquired the proportions of a choral triptych (or a mini ‘Three Choirs Festival’); it sounded vibrant and stirring, and gave an inkling of how the St Matthew Passion might have sounded in the 1730s, its double chorus augmented by a third choir singing from the ‘swallow’s nest’ gallery in St Thomas’s. (For those who prefer their Bach untampered with, we have included the original version as an additional track, recorded at our final rehearsal.) The following recitative for tenor links the individual’s thoughts on death to the path prepared by Jesus’ own patient journey towards his crucifixion and acts as a bridge from the F major chorus to the extended C minor ‘sleep aria’ (No.3). This is for soprano with oboe obbligato – plus staccato quaver reiterations by two recorders and a pizzicato bass line, the second occasion this year in which we have encountered Bach’s use of pizzicato strings to represent funeral bells. Then just in case anyone happened to have nodded off in this mesmeric and ravishing aria, Bach calls for a trumpet to add to the full string band in a grand, tableau-like evocation of the Last Judgement (No.4), replete with triple occurrences of a wild 6/8 section when all hell is let loose in true Monteverdian concitato (‘excited’) manner. Theologically and musically this is highly complex, sophisticated and innovative. It is also against the run of play of Bach’s second Leipzig cycle, where 4 several factors combine to limit the available opportunities of experimentation with new forms: (a) the more uniform character of his libretti compared with the Biblical compilations of his earlier cantatas; (b) the self-imposed task of composing new church music each week and maintaining that rhythm well into the second year; (c) the standardisation of cantata form caused by the popularity of the Neumeister type (chorus – recitative – aria – chorus); and (d) the frequent lack of imagination shown by several of his librettists.

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